


Bowling puns and assorted seduction skillsets

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mutual Pining, fluff fluff, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 21:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13889472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: When in doubt, pivot. "Let me buy you dinner, as a thank you," Silver said.Flint narrowed his eyes. "No, it's fine. Glad I could help." He sounded about as genuinely enthused as someone who'd stepped in dog crap."Let me cook you dinner, then.""I-- You know how to cook?"~Some extremely snippety modern au trope-iness starring John Silver, human disaster on his way to being slightly less disastrous, and my own hunger for taco salad.





	Bowling puns and assorted seduction skillsets

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to [Clenster](http://clenster.tumblr.com/), for being really nice about the totally random things I message her with. :)))

By the time Silver was back on his feet, Flint had hauled the doomed tire into the trunk of the car and was rubbing his hands on a nearby bank of grass.

"Can I. Help you, somehow?" Silver asked, squinting. Clouds were shifting to conceal the moon, making the treacherous little two-lane back into town even darker, despite the headlights from Flint's truck.

Flint straightened up. "Grease," he said, holding up his hands. A smear of black crossed his palms. 

"Ah." Silver had watched the whole impromptu how-to-change-a-flat with a vague amount of interest, though Flint had lost him a couple of times. Mechanic's jargon (of course Flint would be the type to have put himself through freshman year at Teach Auto back in the day), annoyed mutterings; also Flint's distracting, pale eyelashes, and the line of his throat rough with the beard he hadn't trimmed up over the weekend. 

Silver wasn't completely sure where grease had come into play. "I have some handi wipes in the glove compartment," he offered.

"You don't have any tools, a flashlight, a jack, or anything at all useful for the obvious eventuality of a flat tire, except for a spare that clearly belongs on another make and model of car entirely, but you're carrying handi wipes." Flint's left eye was beginning to twitch.

Silver decided to keep his mouth shut. Billy had been the one, months ago, to point out that nothing good ever, _ever_ came from matching Flint's sarcasm with more sarcasm. Some things you just let go, and life ran much more smoothly that way. Besides, Silver did owe Flint one, just for answering his text, much less coming out after hours to assist. The trip back into town was doable on foot to the extent that, technically, Silver could've walked it. It would've taken him a couple of hours, even with the crutch, and he probably wouldn't have been able to move the next day and there was a decent chance a storm would've blown down right on top of him. 

He grabbed the handi wipes and tossed the package over to Flint. 

"You all right to get home, then?" Flint asked, wiping his palms off with a grimace while a fake lemon scent filled the air. He was in gruff mode, after a few days of being unreachable, and Silver still didn't know why, nor how to snap him out of it. 

They weren't responsible for each other out of the office, he knew that, although he'd thought...

He made himself look at something other than the line of Flint's throat.

He'd thought maybe they had become friends, of a kind, over the last few months. Put in a fair amount of overtime together, had some meandering, interesting conversations late at night and early in the morning when few others were around. Maybe skirted somewhere in the vicinity of flirting; or at least friendliness. Something closer to friends than not friends, anyway. But then, the last week-- And Silver had started to question what he'd thought had been...developing. 

Stupidly, it made something twist in his chest, to think Flint was fundamentally unhappy, or had become unhappy, at any rate, in the last week or so. Silver did know that being caught ill-prepared was bad; it was his own dinky deathtrap car and he wasn't on the clock, but Flint was the sort of person for whom a person's behavior anywhere reflected on their potential in all other arenas. That an office manager could have so little foresight was unacceptable. Flint didn't have to say any of that aloud. Silver could read it in his posture, hear the gears turning in Flint's head.

When in doubt, pivot. "Let me buy you dinner, as a thank you," Silver said. 

Flint narrowed his eyes. "No, it's fine. Glad I could help." He sounded about as genuinely enthused as someone who'd stepped in dog crap.

"Let me cook you dinner, then."

"I-- You know how to cook?" 

Silver smiled, because for the first time in days Flint had asked him something with actual curiosity in his voice. "I do know how. I don't actually have any food at my house--"

"Why would you?" Flint said under his breath.

"But I know a place we can have some for cheap." 

"The grocery?" 

"Closed; it's nearly ten." Port Ajax was not the sort of town where you could buy a gallon of milk after 9 p.m. unless the one of the Dooley's happened to be amendable to selling you some unpasteurized out their back door. "But Max's--"

"Are we going to eat a bowling ball?" 

"They have an attached diner -- how do you not know this? -- stays open the whole time the alley's open, and guess who used to be their number one fry cook?" 

Flint gave him a level look. "It sure as fuck wasn't Eleanor."

Silver choked. "God. It sure as fuck wasn't." 

Flint was watching the clouds scuttle into the sky above them; it struck Silver that the circles under Flint's eyes maybe weren't being created from the combination of fading and weirdly angled lighting coming from two different directions, and maybe he should let Flint go home and get some sleep. 

"I make a mean taco salad," Silver said, trying to sound breezy, which was always a bad idea. 

Flint looked at him, searching him out -- for what, Silver had no idea. 

"That actually sounds good," Flint said slowly, as if he were fighting himself in the speaking of it. 

"Meet you there?" 

Flint nodded and backed away toward his truck. Silver waved and let out a long sigh. Was this progress? Who the hell knew. It would be dinner, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later he was rummaging through Max's fridge looking for ground sirloin. Flint sat thrumming his fingers at the long counter opposite the long griddle. The cafe was empty as per a usual Monday night. Out in the alley the Ranger crew was celebrating someone's birthday with hacked-up sheet cake and a lot of beer and some sort of bowl-to-the-death intramural tournament. Vane made another strike and everyone screamed -- like, ear-splitting haunted house shrieks -- with excitement. 

"You are paying for whatever you take out of there," Max called out in passing. "And throw five more orders of mozzarella sticks in the fryer." 

"Aye-aye, cap'n," Silver saluted her. She gave him the finger and walked on.

"Where is her usual chef?" Flint asked.

Silver snorted. "Probably out bowling a round." Logan was not known for his prompt attention to the kitchen when there was literally anything else to do, plus he was dating one of the Rangers. 

"Did you bowl much when you worked here?"

"Nah. Couple times a month."

"Not your cup of tea?"

"I was fantastic, thank you. Averaged a 175."

Now Flint snorted. "That is indeed average."

Silver slid a bottle of beer over to him. "If I'd practiced more, I coulda been a contenda." His New York accent needed work.

"Sure." Flint took a drink Silver was ninety percent certain was done to cover a grin. 

"If you ever want to play a round, I'd be up for a little healthy competition."

Flint did smile at that, crookedly, dimple showing in his cheek, without looking at Silver. "I'll keep that in mind."

Silver decided to consider that a good sign. He emptied a pan of cheese sticks into a basket, lowered them into hot oil, set the timer, and went back to perusing the fridge. 

"Yesss," he hissed. Onto the counter he tossed variety of ingredients and slammed the fridge shut. 

"Would you like me to chop something?" Flint asked in his old voice, untroubled and reasonable.

"You've washed your hands?"

"Yeah, to get that awful handi wipe reside off."

"How 'bout you grate some cheese?"

"Is that commentary?"

"Merely a request." Silver jerked a thumb to the right. "Grater's on the shelf above the toaster."

He pulled the sticks out of the fryer with tongs, sorted them into five paper-lined baskets, and stacked them on a nearby tray. Logan would wander in eventually, probably. A minute later Silver was mincing up roasted jalapenos and throwing them in a bowl with crushed tomatoes. Flint had turned a hunk of cheddar into a pile of shavings. Silver unwrapped the half pound of ground sirloin and slapped it on the griddle. 

"Onions?" Flint asked. 

"There," Silver said, pointing to the aluminum bowl.

Flint took off the lid and blinked a dozen times from the fumes. "Damn."

"They're strong, right? Must've been cut today." 

Silver spooned a big wad of the diced reds onto the meat that was beginning to sizzle on the griddle. He sprinkled on a healthy amount of kosher salt and the cafe's secret blend of chili powders and a few pinches of cayenne. 

"That smells promising," Flint said, eying the griddle. "What else?"

"Tortillas. Stack 'em up, slice 'em in fifths. We'll fry 'em fast."

"There a giant knife back here somewhere?" Flint said, opening drawers over by the blenders and coffee maker. 

"Look up." 

The chef's knives gleamed from a magnetic bar screwed into the wall. The sight of the nine inch one in Flint's hand looked deeply, unnervingly correct, Silver thought. He went back to tearing up lettuce. Flint sliced the tortillas, as instructed, and found a clean frying basket; he looked almost content. 

We work well together, Silver didn't say.

In fewer than five minutes, the sirloin was cooked, the tortillas were fried, and two taco salads were assembled on the oversized plates Max had insisted Silver buy years ago. He'd noticed there were exactly two left, the rest, no doubt, lost to the pains of restaurant management, i.e. shit breaks.

"What else?" he asked. "What's missing?" They were sitting side by side at the counter and Silver took pains not to let his arm knock against Flint's.

Flint shook his head and made a blissed noise. He'd dotted his salad with sour cream, sliced avocado (Logan had remembered to add lime juice, amazingly), and black olives, and was shoveling in food like he hadn't eaten all day.

Which, possibly he hadn't.

"You know, if you ever wanted to talk," Silver said, "about things. You know. Things. You could. You know." He took a bite of his own salad and decided it needed more salsa.

Flint swallowed his own bite. "What would I need to talk about?"

"You've been in a terrible fucking mood for a solid week." 

Silver had run out of diplomacy and beer in the same sentence. One of those things could be found in the fridge. He wanted to erase from his brain the way Flint's eyes had looked for a second there; he counted to ten before pulling out another two bottles. By the time he was back in his seat Flint was watching him with that odd, maddening expression.

"You know," Silver said, "it almost seems like you might actually _want_ to tell me something."

"You have salsa on your t-shirt."

Silver looked down. Flint smirked, but he wasn't wrong.

"Gotta throw a load in the wash tonight before bed anyway," Silver shrugged.

Flint sighed.

Silver put down his fork. "Okay. Seriously. Are you okay." He stopped himself from kicking Flint in the shin, but just barely.

An excessive pause. "September 16th was the ten-year anniversary." Flint wasn't looking at him then. He wasn't looking anywhere.

"Of what?" Silver asked. As soon as the question left his mouth he realized the answer and wanted to stab himself with the fork. "Oh."

Oh shit.

"Yeah." Flint put down his own fork and swallowed again.

Silver was standing up and hugging Flint before his brain caught up with the rest of him. 

"What's happening?" Flint's whisper conveyed more than a little distress as he turned on the barstool.

"I'm hugging you," Silver whispered back.

Flint seemed to be hugging Silver thoroughly but also involuntarily. "Yeah, but why?"

"Because you needed a hug."

"I really. Don't think I did." Flint untangled himself from Silver to keep him at arm's length and peer at him. "I'm fine, I swear."

Silver's whole upper body felt hyper-aware of the air conditioning kicking on. Flint had been warmer than he would've guessed. Sturdier. His left hand was still on Flint's shoulder and he removed it, feeling silly. He sat back down. It wasn't like Flint had been wandering alone on a windswept moor for ten years; best Silver could recall Flint had been with someone back when Silver had first started working at the office last year, and whatever could be said about that relationship, its dissolution hadn't appeared to cause Flint an undue amount of despair. Which didn't change the fact, of course, that some milestones just sucked. 

"It's a hell of an anniversary, is all," Silver said. 

Flint was still watching him with that odd expression. "It is," he said after a beat. "Ten years. Doesn't seem that long ago." His appetite seemed to have vanished.

"I can imagine," Silver said, though he couldn't, actually, and now that he was trying to he sort of wanted to slump over the counter and throw up. 

But Flint smiled, soft and small, like Silver had done him a kindness. 

Silver realized he might've been staring, and that neither he nor Flint had said nor eaten anything in a while. "You want a box for your leftovers?" he asked, from sheer lack of anything else to say.

Flint nodded. Silver set to work, scraping salad into styrofoam and flinging bowls back into the fridge. Would Logan notice the griddle needed to be scraped? Probably not, but that was Logan's problem. Silver tacked a twenty dollar bill to the corkboard by the calendar, as a tip.

In the parking lot he and Flint went to their separate vehicles. 

"Thanks for dinner," Flint said over the hood of the truck.

"Thanks for fixing up my spare," Silver said.

"There's a joke in there somewhere." Flint sounded quiet but all right, and maybe that was enough.

Silver hesitated for a second. His chest felt tight again. Flint wasn't looking at him, which, why would he be. "Goodnight," Silver said finally. He got in his car and shut the door before he could make a fool of himself further.

They were going in opposite directions out of the parking lot. Silver made himself not turn to watch Flint drive away.

In his tiny house he washed his face and brushed his teeth. Tossed his t-shirt down the basement stairs; the laundry could wait until the weekend. Thought about calling Madi to say hi, reconsidered when he noticed it was almost midnight and even from one timezone away too late for a chat. Dicked around on the internet and sent himself an email at work about checking to see if they had ordered ice for Thursday's luncheon. Didn't, in any way, think about Flint's eyelashes or his stupid goddamn face. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his rough throat had felt against his.

It sounded like someone was knocking on the front door, which was ridiculous at 12:23 a.m.

Upon opening the door the first thing out of Silver's mouth was, "What's happened?" with frankly more panic than perhaps the situation warranted.

"Nothing," Flint said, holding up his very clean hands.

"How many times have you washed your hands in the last two hours?" Silver blurted, because he and his brain were still not firing on the same cylinders.

"Seventeen." 

"That's," Silver began. 

Flint stepped into him and wrapped him into a hug. 

"Oh," Silver whispered.

He held onto Flint and Flint held onto him.

It wasn't really a hug. And when Flint pulled away, just a little, the odd look he'd worn all evening made sense. 

I am kind of an asshole moron, Silver thought.

"Whatever smartass thing you're thinking about saying," Flint murmured, "don't."

He tucked a curl behind Silver's ear slowly, thumb brushing the shell of Silver's ear in a way that made Silver somehow feel like electricity was crackling down his whole body, and then tucked the curl back again.

"That won't work," Silver said, knowing better than anyone the futility of trying to corral his own hair.

"Depends on what I'm trying to accomplish," Flint said, watching his fingertips trail down the side of Silver's throat.

Would you like to talk, Silver should've asked, but kissing, he reasoned, was a method of communication too. And it seemed Flint did indeed want to talk -- god, his mouth was warm and soft and perfect, and yes those shoulders fit just right beneath Silver's hands -- so it was a good thing, Silver thought, that he himself was such a good listener.

**Author's Note:**

> eta: Canoodling with a coworker in real life is often tricky, at best. Let us therefore pretend this is the rare case (uh...) where everything will work out just fine somehow because lord I'm too tired this year to worry about fictional people yelling at each other and lawyering up in HR at some point. :D


End file.
